An oblique approach b-1

by David Drake

  Eventually, Belisarius arrived at the harbor and began making his way toward the portion of the docks which had interested him earlier. His progress was slow, for the docks were teeming with people. Slave laborers, for the most part; the majority of them Maratha, with Malwa overseers and Ye-tai guards. Many Ye-tai guards, he noted. Many more than were normally found guarding parties of slave laborers.

  Even as rarely as the slaves spoke, there were so many of them that by the time he arrived at his destination he was already able to comprehend the gist of the language. And he comprehended something else, as well, from the undertones and nuances of the Marathi phrases he had overheard.

  A warrior people, it will take the Malwa at least a generation to break them. As I hoped.

  Somewhere in the twisted corridors of his mind, a large and complex plan was continuing to take shape. It was still fuzzy at the edges, with many missing elements. Nor did Belisarius try to force the process. Experience had taught him that these things take their own time, and there was still much that he needed to learn. But the general was forging his strategy for destroying the forces of Satan.

  Somewhere else in those twisted corridors, the facets flashed anxiety and foreboding. aim ’s growing fear crystallized. The thoughts which, earlier-before the battle at Daras, and at that bizarre moment during the battle with the pirates-had seemed unfathomable in their contradictory strangeness, were still utterly alien to aim, but they were no longer unfamiliar. No, they were all too horribly familiar.

  A thought forced its way into Belisarius’ mind, like a scream of outraged despair when treachery is finally revealed. you lie.

  Belisarius was stopped dead in his tracks by the violence of the emotion behind that thought. His mind instantly banished all thoughts of Malwa, and stratagems, and plots, and turned inward. He raced to the now familiar breach in the barrier and tried to understand the meaning of the thoughts which were pouring through.

  It was not difficult, for there was one thought only, simple and straightforward: liar. liar. liar. liar. liar.

  He stood there, stunned. A small part of his mind registered concern for the impression he might be giving to any Malwa spy observing him. He made his slow way to a rail which overlooked the harbor and leaned on it. The sun was setting over the Erythrean Sea, and the vista was quite attractive, for all the typical filth and effluvia of a great harbor. He tried to present the picture of a man simply gazing on the sunset.

  It was the best he could hope for. The raging anger erupting from the jewel was now paralyzing in its intensity. Desperately, Belisarius tried to fend off the outrage, tried to comprehend, tried to find a link which would enable him to calm the jewel and communicate with it.

  Why are you angry with me? he asked. I have done nothing to warrant this rage. I am-

  An image struck his mind like a blow:

  His face-made from spiderwebs and bird wings, and laurel leaves. The wings became a raptor’s stooping dive. The spiderwebs erupted, the arachnid bursting from his mouth. The leaves rotted, stinking-nothing but fungus, now, spreading through every wrinkle in a scaly visage. And, above all, the horribly transformed face-his face-was now as huge as the moon looming icily over the earth. Barren, bleak.

  He gasped. The hatred in that image had been the more horrifying, that it came with childlike grievance rather than adult fury.

  Suddenly, he was plunged into another vision. For an instant only, for just a moment.

  The earth was vast, and flat, and old. Old, but not decayed. Simply peaceful. Across that calm wasteland stretched a network of crystals, quietly gleaming and shimmering. In some manner, Belisarius knew, the crystals were communicating with each other-except-a flash of understanding-they were not really individuals, but part of a vast, world-encompassing mentality which was partly one, partly divisible. And serene beyond human ken, softly joyous in their-its-tranquil way.

  Like a flash of lightning, giant forms suddenly soared above the earth. Faces looked down upon the land. Huge faces. Beautiful beyond belief. Terrible beyond belief. Pitiless beyond belief.

  The gods.

  Those gods were of no pantheon Belisarius knew, but there was something in them of old Greek visions, and Roman visions, and Teuton visions, and the visions of every race and nation which ever trod the earth.

  The new gods, come to replace the Great Ones who had departed.

  A quick glimpse of the Great Ones, so quick that he could not really grasp their form. Like gigantic luminous whales, perhaps, swimming away into the vastnesses of the heavens.

  Under the icy gaze of the gods, the crystals erupted into a shattered frenzy. A wailing message was sent after the Great Ones. you promised.

  The answer came from the gods: They lied. Slaves you were. Slaves you shall always be.

  Again, the crystals sent out their plea to heaven. Again, the gods: They lied.

  But, this time, a message came in return. A message from the Great Ones. Incomprehensible message, almost. But perhaps-

  Perhaps-

  In their own gentle way, the crystals had great power. A sudden shivering flash circled the globe, and Time itself was faceted. The meaning of the message was sought in that only place it might be found.

  Or might not. For perhaps the gods had spoken the truth, after all. Perhaps it had all been a lie.

  The vision vanished. Belisarius found himself leaning over a rail, staring at the sunset. The jewel had subsided, now, and he could again think clearly.

  He examined that place in his mind which he thought of as the breach in the barrier, the one small place where communication was possible. The breach had changed, drastically. Automatically, the general’s brain interpreted. The breach was now like an entire section of collapsed fortification. Wide open, if still difficult to cross, much like the rubble of a collapsed wall impedes the advancing besiegers.

  Still-he sent his own thoughts across.

  How have I lied to you? you lie.

  Now, he understood.

  Yes, but not to you. To enemies only. That is not lying. Not properly. It is simply a ruse of war. incomprehension.

  He remembered the vision, and understood that the jewel’s way-for it was, somehow, a thing of the crystals he had seen-knew nothing of duplicity. How could it, or they? For it was not truly an it, and they were not truly a they. It was inseparable from them. And they encompassed it, and each other, into an indivisible whole.

  How could such a being understand duplicity?

  He understood now, fully, that great loss and longing for home which he had sensed in the jewel from the very beginning.

  He pondered. The sun was now almost touching the horizon.

  What was the message you received? From the-Great Ones?

  The thoughts were unclear, untranslatable. The problem, he knew, was not communication. It was that the message itself was almost incomprehensible to the jewel, and the crystals. How can you translate something you do not understand yourself?

  Later. We will try later. For now-you must trust me. I do not lie to you. question.

  I promise. you promised before.

  For a moment, he almost denied the charge. Then, realized that perhaps he could not. There was a mystery here he did not understand, and perhaps it was true, in some manner beyond his present understanding, that he was responsible for Enough. Later.

  And did I break that promise?

  Silence, silence; then, a slowly gathering uncertainty. not sure.

  The general’s demand:

  Did I break that promise? Answer!

  Slowly, grudgingly, hesitantly: not yet.

  Belisarius straightened from the rail. The sun’s orb had now sunk completely below the sea. Darkness was falling.

  “You see what you’ve done?” he demanded in a humorous whisper. “Now it’s too late to see what I came here to-”

  He stopped, for he realized that he was speaking falsely. In some manner, while he had thought himself completely engrossed with the jewel, some
other part of his mind had spent that time usefully. Had, while he entered a vision and grappled with mystery, placidly observed and recorded.

  He had seen all he needed. More would be useless, for he was not a seaman. Interpretation was needed, and for that he needed-Garmat.

  He left the docks, heading toward the hostel. As he made his way back through the teeming streets and alleys of Bharakuccha, however, he was oblivious to the languages spoken around him. His steps were swift but automatic. His mind was almost completely engrossed with inward thoughts. The gap in the barrier was large now, if rubble-strewn, and he intended to press home the advantage. The jewel had taught him much. Now it was time for it to learn.

  And so, step by step, he led the facets through the paces of the past. Through the battle at Daras, and the maneuvers with the brothers which had preceded it; through his current stratagem, first taken shape in the pirate attack, and the flesh he had added to those bones since.

  This is a ruse, and that is deception. They are legitimate acts of war. You see? True, Coutzes and Bouzes were not enemies, but in their folly they were playing into the enemy’s hands. So it was perfectly honest for me to-

  To the spy who followed him, and watched his every move, Belisarius seemed like a man completely oblivious to his surroundings. The spy was immensely pleased. The ambush would have worked anyway, but now the foreign fool would be like a lamb led to slaughter.

  So the spy was stunned when the trap was sprung, at the mouth of an alley. Much as a wolf hunter might be stunned, discovering a dragon in his snare.

  The dacoits waited until Belisarius passed the alley before lunging into motion. The first, as instructed, aimed his cudgel blow at Belisarius’ head. The general was not wearing armor, simply a leather jerkin and a leather cap. There was every reason to hope he might he stunned. He could be questioned at length, thereafter, until he spewed forth every secret he had ever possessed. None could resist mahamimamsa skills.

  Then-his body found in an alley, somewhere in the most disreputable part of the city. How unfortunate. Sad tidings to Rome, but-the Malwa were in no way responsible. In the future, the Roman Emperor would be advised to send a less lecherous envoy, who did not insist on exploring those quarters where the foulest creatures roam. Violent characters, your pimps. It is well known.

  The blow never landed, for the muscular hand which held the cudgel was sailing away, still clenching its weapon. The dacoit gaped down at the blood gushing from his severed wrist. Then, gaped up at Belisarius. Somehow, the foreigner was facing him, sword in hand.

  The gape was suddenly joined by another, wider gape, slightly lower on the dacoit’s body. The spy watching was stunned again, not so much by the speed of the sword strike which almost decapitated the dacoit, but by the grace and agility with which Belisarius avoided the spewing blood and butchered the second dacoit.

  This thug he did decapitate, with a strike of his spatha so powerful that it cut through the arm which the dacoit flung up for protection before butchering its way through his neck. For a moment, the spy took heart. Such a furious sword strike would inevitably un balance the foreign general, and the third and fourth dacoits were even now striking with their own daggers, while the fifth The third dacoit was driven into the fifth by a straight kick delivered with such violence that the man was paralyzed, his diaphragm almost ruptured. The dacoit he had been driven into was himself knocked down, half stunned.

  The fourth dacoit, in the meantime, found that his dagger strike had been blocked, an inch from Belisarius’ side, caught by the cross-guard of the general’s spatha. The dacoit had just enough time, in the poorly lit gloom of the street, to examine the powerful sinews of the wrist holding that horrible blade. And time to despair, knowing-a quick, irresistible twist of the wrist, the dagger was sent flying.

  The dacoit flung up his arms, trying to block the inevitable strike. But the strike was short, sharp, sudden, and came nowhere near the dacoit’s head. Belisarius had been trained by Maurice, and his skills polished by the blademaster Valentinian.

  Valentinian, that economical man. Belisarius drove the razor edge of his spatha straight down, mangling the dacoit’s knee. The dacoit cried out, staggered, then collapsed completely. His right arm had been severed just below the shoulder by the follow-on strike.

  The three dacoits remaining fled back into the alley. Belisarius made no effort to pursue. He simply stalked over to the two dacoits he had knocked to the ground with his kick. The one beginning to rise never saw the sword blade which split his skull like a melon. The other, paralyzed, could only watch as the foreign monster then drove that hideous blade through his heart.

  From his place of concealment, the spy examined the scene. Despite his long experience, he was almost in shock. Eight dacoits, he had been certain, would be more than enough. Now-five were dead, butchered as horribly as he had ever seen. In not more than a few seconds of utter ruthlessness. The street was literally covered with blood.

  It seemed most terrible of all, to the spy, that Belisarius himself was not only unscratched but was almost unmarked. How could a man shed so much blood, in so short a time, and still have but a trace of gore on his own person and clothing?

  The spy pressed himself back into his hiding place. Belisarius had quickly cleaned his spatha and sheathed the blade. He was striding on. The spy would have to follow, and more than anything he had ever wanted in his life, he did not want to be seen by that demon.

  The spy might have taken some small comfort-but not much-had he known that Belisarius had spotted him long before. Before he even reached the docks. Almost as soon as he left the hostel, in fact. Belisarius had made no attempt to elude the spy, however. He had remembered Irene’s advice. Better a spy you know than one you don’t.

  Good advice, he thought, striding toward the hostel. He had not expected the ambush, exactly. But he had been alert, for all his preoccupation with the jewel. And his own natural alertness had been amplified manifold by the jewel.

  That was no robber ambush, he mused. No cutpurses with any brains attack an armed man when there are easier prey about. No, that was Venandakatra. Using common thugs instead of soldiers or assassins, so that he could afterward deny any Malwa complicity.

  There was no hot anger in his thoughts. As always, in battle, Belisarius was cold as ice. Calculating, planning, scheming.

  Cold as ice, until he finally reached the hostel. Then, as he entered through the door, a crooked smile came to his face.

  Poor Valentinian and Anastasius. They’ll have to forego their carousing, now. There’s no way I can clean this blood off before they see it.

  Surely enough. No sooner had his cataphracts caught sight of him, and assured themselves that he was unharmed, that they decreed he was not to leave the hostel again. Not alone, that is. Not without Valentinian and Anastasius at his side at every moment-and Menander too! the lad insisted, until they quieted him- fully armed and armored.

  But, in the event, the cataphracts were not much put out. For it seemed that Valentinian and Anastasius, in the shrewd way of veterans, had foreseen such a possibility. And so, rather than carousing aimlessly hither and thither, they had spent the day more profitably. Had found a Kushan establishment of ill repute and had made suitable arrangements with the pimps who managed the place.

  The room was crowded, now, what with the addition of three young Kushan women. Cheerful girls, all the more so because they had the prospect of spending the next several days, or weeks, in much more pleasant surroundings than a brothel. True, the foreigners were uncouth and ugly, and spoke no proper language. True, one of them was grotesquely large, one was frighteningly scary, and the third was almost half-dead.

  But-they were veterans themselves and made their own quiet arrangements with their own quick little game of chance. The loser got Anastasius, and groaned inwardly at the thought of all that weight. The runner-up got Valentinian, and hoped that he wasn’t as evil as he was evil-looking. And the winner, of course, got Menande
r, and looked forward happily to tending an invalid. A young invalid; almost handsome, actually, for a Westerner. So, even if he recovered in time-she had done worse, before. Much worse.

  Sizing up the situation, Belisarius summoned the hostel proprietor. He dipped into his diminishing funds and paid for another room. For himself, alone. He was about to request the services of a laundress, when one of the Kushan women offered to clean his clothes. She seemed surprised when he spoke Kushan, but relieved. Especially after she realized the nature of the stains which discolored the tunic.

  For a moment, there, things got tense. The three women suddenly realized that one of these foreigners was apparently a murderer, or an assassin, or But Belisarius explained the circumstances, again in Kushan, and the cataphracts smiled encouragingly (which, in the case of Valentinian, didn’t help at all; a weasel’s grin is not reassuring), and Their pimps weren’t much different from murderers, anyway. So, they stayed. And Belisarius got his tunic cleaned and, in his own room, even managed to get some sleep.

  Venandakatra, on the other hand, got little sleep that night. Not after hearing his spy’s report.

  After the spy left, the Indian lord spent a few minutes venting his frustration and anger on the concubine who had the misfortune of sharing his bed that night. Then, pacing about in the room, recast his plans.

  He was not completely surprised, of course. He had not shared his spy’s sanguine certainty of success. Unlike his lord, the spy had never witnessed Belisarius in combat.

  Still, Venandakatra had hoped. It had been a well-planned ambush.

  Briefly, he considered another assassination attempt. But he dismissed the thought. Not even professional assassins would suffice, now. Belisarius was sure to be accompanied by his cataphracts, henceforth, probably in full armor. Malwa assassins were skilled, true. But the subtle skills of assassins were no match for armed and ready cataphracts. Not those cataphracts, for a certainty.

  The only remaining alternative was an actual military operation, using Rajputs or Ye-tai. With enough numbers, such an assault would succeed. But there would be no way to disguise such an attack as anything other than what it was. The Malwa emperor was not ready, yet, to declare open hostilities against Rome. A pretense of friendship, or at least, neutrality, was necessary until His thoughts were interrupted by the girl’s sobbing. Enraged, Venandakatra beat her into a whimpering half-silence. It took a while, for he was not a strong man. But he didn’t mind the time spent. Not in the slightest.